


Context Clues

by lauawill



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Angst, F/M, POV First Person, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 17:59:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1356772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lauawill/pseuds/lauawill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After their return to the Alpha Quadrant, three members of Voyager's crew encounter each other on vacation, while someone unknown to them watches and draws conclusions about their relationships. I'm cross-listing this under DS9 for a very specific reason even though it's very definitely a Voyager story. If DS9 fans would prefer I didn't do that, just let me know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**“Context Clues”**

**Part 1**

            “Thirty-love.”

            I glance up from my notebook long enough to watch the small redheaded woman toss the tennis ball high in the air and serve it over the net. The tall blonde opposite her shifts to her backhand to return the hard serve, and the two women begin to volley again. The tennis ball flies back and forth over the net while they both duck and dart in pursuit.

            There’s a significant age difference between them – the redhead looks to be in her mid-forties, while the blonde is much closer to my own age – and the gulf between their skill levels is wide, too. I suspect the redhead was an elite player at one time. The blonde is younger, quicker and stronger, but they’ve been playing for over an hour and the redhead hasn’t even broken a sweat.

            I watch for a moment, then take up my pen and return to my notebook.

            _Outside the rain had stopped, the trees had stilled and the clouds over the field had begun to roll toward the distant horizon. As I sat there, alone in a room full of people, I wondered if—_

            “Forty-love.” After she announces the score, the redhead serves the ball again. I try to focus on my writing.

            _Alone in a room full of people, I wondered if anyone understood how much I—_

            “Forty-fifteen.”

            _How much I—_

            “Forty-thirty.”

            _How much—_

            “Game.”

            Frustrated, I look up and watch the blonde bounce the ball twice on the court before she flings it up and serves it back to her opponent to start a new game. I’m struck by the obvious differences in the way the two women play. The blonde relies primarily on brute force in her strategy. Forehand or backhand, her every shot sizzles across the net and powers to the baseline, where the redhead waits with her racket poised. The redhead’s game is one of precision and finesse. She sends the ball corner to corner until her opponent overcommits and she connects on a passing shot, or, more often, angles the head of her racket, softens her wrist and drops the ball half a meter over the net where the blonde cannot possibly get to it. The redhead’s strategy is nuanced, crafty and confident, while the blonde’s strategy is one-dimensional and…naïve.

            The redhead scores three straight points, and I return to my notebook.

            _I wondered if anyone understood how much I had lost, and how little I had left to live for. They continued to talk in hushed tones behind me. They assumed I couldn’t hear, but every word they whispered—_

            “Fifteen-forty.”

            _Every word they whispered—_

            “Thirty-forty.”

            _Every word—_

            “Deuce.”

            I sigh and close my notebook.

            The score shifts back and forth for a few minutes. The two women trade points, neither able to earn two in a row to take the game. The blonde seems to have finally adapted slightly to the redhead’s strategy, incorporating some of it into her own. She scores on a drop shot that clearly startles the redhead, but the redhead counters on the next point with a service return that blows by the blonde before she has time to react. Deuce again.

            I reopen my notebook to a blank page in the back. The Story—I still can’t bring myself refer to it by its proper title, not yet—isn’t cooperating today, so I fall back on a writer’s exercise. While I watch them play, I try to jot down distinct words to describe the two players. The blonde: _Burnished. Lithe. Glossy. Agile. Sleek. Gorgeous._ I smile, looking at that last word. I may be in a serious relationship, but I’m not dead.

            “Deuce.” While I’ve been contemplating words, the two have exchanged points again. I watch the older player and make another list. The redhead: _Nimble. Resilient. Elegant. Cunning. Playful. Lovely._

            Across the court from me, a broad-shouldered man watches the match closely. His narrowed eyes follow the ball from end to end, resting now and then on each of the women as if contemplating them. Comparing them, just as I am comparing them. I make a new list in my notebook. The big man: _Thoughtful. Attentive. Perceptive. Sensitive._

            I glance at the second man sitting across the court, and write one more word: _Oblivious_. I don’t think he’s looked up from the PADD in his hands since the match began, not even to notice the beauty of the mountains surrounding the resort on three sides, or the sandy beach that begins just a few meters beyond the end of the tennis court. He certainly doesn’t appreciate the grace of the two lovely women playing tennis right in front of him.

            “Advantage out.” I can hear the blonde’s frown when she announces the point. As I look up from my notebook, she serves. The redhead returns it easily from her backhand and the volley is on. The blonde dashes from sideline to sideline, until the redhead overplays a backhand and leaves her an opening. The blonde reaches out and attempts a passing shot…but the redhead has anticipated it. She might have even planned it, offering the opening in her game as bait for the passing shot. With a slight smile on her face, she darts to the net and pushes a drop shot away from the blonde, who stops and stares at the ball as it dribbles by.

            “Game, set, match!” the redhead proclaims. The blonde grits her teeth and nods in concession.

            The broad-shouldered man chuckles. “Nice shot, Kathryn,” he calls. The redhead winks at him as she trots to the sideline, her tennis skirt swishing around her pert backside. The blonde gives them both a frosty look and stalks along behind the redhead. The second man still does not react, not even when the redhead places her hand on his shoulder and leans close to him.

            I know who all of them are.

            Everyone at the resort knows, but we’ve kept our distance—from them and from each other. Elite and exclusive, The Portage is a place where high-profile people go to hide. I’m not so high-profile, personally, but the income from my first book is paying for this much-needed escape from my second book’s disappointing reviews. Even though The Portage is just across the Cook Strait from my Wellington apartment, this is such a sheltered and shuttered place that I feel like I’m a universe away. I assume these two couples—Admiral Kathryn Janeway and Federation Councilman Marcel Toussaint, Captain Chakotay and Seven of Nine—have come here to avoid the fallout of the Shinzon Affair on the one hand, and the relentless press coverage of their upcoming wedding on the other.

            I’ve been watching them for two days.

            They were already here when I arrived, and it took me most of a day to realize that they hadn’t all arrived together. On the surface they may look like four old friends enjoying some fun in the sun together at the height of the New Zealand summer, but I don’t think this rendezvous was deliberately planned.

            I can’t quite articulate why I think that. Chakotay is as attentive to Seven as a fiancé should be. I’ve seen him offer her his arm as they navigate the resort’s restaurant and bar. Late last night I caught them in a passionate embrace in a dark corner of the lobby. For her part, Janeway nearly always has a hand on Toussaint’s back or shoulder, even though I suspect he rarely notices it.

            But Janeway and Chakotay together… They watch each other. They find each other’s gaze. When they do anything as a foursome, they maneuver themselves – whether consciously or not – so that they are the ones sitting or walking side-by-side, with Seven and Toussaint flanking them.

            They orbit one another, binary stars locked in an endless, primeval dance.

            Janeway towels the sweat from her face and announces that their lunch reservations are in less than an hour. The four of them stroll off the court and back toward the main resort building. As I watch, the Captain falls in at the Admiral’s side, stops himself, and reaches back for Seven of Nine.

            I reopen my notebook to the back and add a word to his list: _Conflicted._

            Then I flip to the page where I’d left off with The Story, now that the court is empty and silent again.           

            _They assumed I couldn’t hear, but every word they whispered cut into me like a jagged, rusty blade. “First his mother, now his father,” someone murmured. “It’s too much for one so young.” I didn’t feel young. The face that was reflected back to me from the rain-streaked window was unlined and unblemished, a boy’s face. But the pain inside me was ancient._

**END of Part 1**


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2**

            _Voyager_ has been back for a little more than a year.

            Like most Federation citizens, I followed the stories of the ship’s return to the Alpha Quadrant on the newsfeeds. I cheered when she cleared the Golden Gate Bridge and settled on the grounds of the Presidio. I watched the crew disembark and embrace their families – those whose families were in attendance. But it was the middle of a weekday afternoon in Wellington and I had classes to attend. And frankly, my own losses made it hard for me to enjoy those happy reunions.

            The press followed the _Voyagers_ for a few more weeks. Captain Janeway’s hearing was a topic of particular interest, as were the exoneration of the Maquis and the relationship between Chakotay and Seven of Nine. The Parises and their newborn daughter also endured more coverage than was probably appropriate. After a couple months and a public memorial ceremony for those who didn’t make it home, the newshounds finally moved on to other topics and left the _Voyagers_ to sort out their lives in peace.

            The announcement of Chakotay and Seven’s engagement started things up again last September, right about the time of the Shinzon Affair. Suddenly, after being left alone for almost a year, two of the most high-profile _Voyagers_ were back in the spotlight. Admiral Janeway and Marcel Toussaint’s relationship became public almost overnight, too, which didn’t help matters. Janeway dealt with it gracefully enough. I think she might have even been relieved to have that to talk about instead of Shinzon and Data. Toussaint, one of Earth’s four Federation Councilmen and the first from Haiti, has been the consummate politician, saying and doing all the right things to keep the press interested in him, but deflecting the most prying of questions with sly answers delivered in his lilting, Creole accent.

            Chakotay, though… Chakotay doesn’t like having his private life discussed publicly, and Seven is still very reticent around the press. Since news of their engagement broke, they’ve tried to stay out of the spotlight, but representatives of a few of the more… _unsavory_ publications have been hot on their heels wherever they go.

            In late December, when Chakotay had had enough and sent a particularly persistent paparazzo to the hospital with a broken jaw and stories of the “Maquis Mauler’s” Academy days surfaced, he and Seven disappeared. Most people assumed that they’d just left the planet until things blew over, but instead, they’ve turned up here.

            I’m not sure how long they and the Admiral and the Councilman have been here. I’d like to say I’m not usually such a nosy man, but my past association with both Starfleet personnel and ambitious politicians has me curious about them. I haven’t been following them, but it’s a small resort. It’s been difficult to avoid them.

            And frankly, they’ve given me something to think about other than The Story.

            The Story mocks me sometimes. It hovers just on the edge of my consciousness, whispering beautiful phrases that I can’t quite hear, taunting me with all the ideas I want to express but cannot find the words. I had thought – _hoped_ – that getting away from Wellington and the relentless reviews and even my girlfriend might help me concentrate, but instead I’ve found myself skulking around the resort unable to write more than a few stilted phrases in my ever-present notebook.

            _Days and nights pass, but the pain stays with me. Friends come and go; some try to draw me out, pull me into the activities we once enjoyed together, but nothing seems to matter anymore. After a while, some stop trying. It takes me months to realize they haven’t abandoned me, they’re just waiting for my personal cloud of melancholy to dissipate. I think sometimes that they are the true friends, the ones who walk away with assurances that they will be there when I’m ready for them. They’re giving me the time and space to recover on my own, to find myself again and –_

            “Daddy, Daddy, I don’t want to!”

            _To recover on my own, to find myself again and –_

            “Come on, Esther, I won’t let anything happen to you.”

            _To find myself –_

            “No, Daddy! I need my floaties!”

            Once again, I sigh and close my notebook.

            After a cold lunch in my room and more than two hours of staring at blank pages, I’ve settled in a lounge chair by the resort’s pool. I had hoped that most everyone would be spending the hot afternoon at the beach, as usual. Admiral Janeway and Councilman Toussaint were here when I got here, both absorbed in PADDs under a big umbrella. They haven’t moved in an hour, leaving me to my musings. But a young family has now joined us poolside as well, two strapping human men with a baby and a sandy-haired young girl who looks to be about four years old. I recognize the man in the pool; he’s a Parrises Squares star, no doubt here to enjoy one last vacation with his family before the professional season starts. He’s standing waist deep in the water, trying to coax the little girl into the pool with him.

            “You’re too big for your floaties, Esther,” he says to the girl in a thick Australian accent. “Papi didn’t even bring them.”

            The girl turns to the other man, aghast. “I need my floaties, Papi!” she wails.

            Seated in a lounge chair, the other man shifts the baby in his lap and shakes his head. “It’s time to learn to swim without them,” he says in a soothing voice. “Go to Daddy. Daddy’s a good swimmer. He’ll teach you.”

            “But Papi!”

            The other man holds up the baby, who giggles when he spots his sister standing on the deck. “You be a brave girl for Billy.”

            The girl nods at the baby. “So I can teach him to swim someday.”

            The seated man chuckles. “That’s right, you can teach Billy in a few years.” He kisses the baby on the cheek. “He’ll be counting on you.”

            Esther sets her shoulders and turns back to her Daddy. Her face is set into resolved, even grim lines, and her little hands are balled into fists at her sides. “Okay,” she says. “Okay, Daddy.”

            A movement under the big umbrella catches my eye. Janeway reaches over and touches Toussaint’s arm, smiling at the scene unfolding in front of them. The Councilman looks up briefly, nods once without changing expression, then returns to his PADD. Something crosses the Admiral’s face, then, a sad wistfulness that puzzles me.

             “Sit down on the deck and I’ll help you in.” I look back to the man in the pool, who gives his daughter an encouraging smile. “It’ll be all right. I promise.”

            Esther sits down and dangles her feet in the water. The man wades over and enfolds her in his muscled arms. He eases her into the water, wading further into the pool until he is chest-deep. The girl clings to his neck, teeth chattering. “It’s cold, Daddy,” she says.

            “You’ll get used to it.” He bobs up and down, jumping lightly from foot to foot, dipping her a little further into the water with every hop. “Let’s be a kangaroo.”

            The girl giggles against his neck. “Can kangaroos swim?”

            The man pauses. “I don’t know.” He hops again and again. “We’ll look it up when we go upstairs, kiddo.”

            Something in the way he talks to her is familiar to me.

            It’s a universal lesson for land-dwelling lifeforms, I realize, a parent teaching a child to swim. I can recall being held in my father’s arms the same way. I knew that while he was there, surrounding me with his love, nothing could ever hurt me.

            I open my notebook to a new page.           

            _I was afraid I’d never feel that again, that bone-deep certainty that somewhere in the Universe, someone loved me without reservation. It seemed so unfair, and the long emptiness ahead made me weep at the oddest of times – alone in my room, over dinner with friends, whenever some stray memory would wander through my consciousness and remind me of happier times._

“Don’t let me go, Daddy!”

            I blink and look up. While I’ve been writing, the man has maneuvered Esther onto her belly, her hands gripped in his, her head bobbing above the water, her legs scissoring out behind her. The change hasn’t come without a price; there are red scratches on the man’s back, but he doesn’t seem to notice them. “I won’t let you go, kiddo,” he says. “Just let the water hold you up, just like with your floaties.”

            “Don’t let me go!”

            _Don’t let me go._

            It’s almost too much.

            I close my notebook and start to rise, but another voice, a now-familiar one, catches my attention.

            “I do not understand the relevance of this activity.”

            Chakotay answers with a quiet sigh just as he and Seven round the corner of the resort and enter the pool area. “I thought we could try sea kayaking this evening,” he says. The Admiral recognizes the voices, too, and looks up. “But I don’t want to take you out on the open water until I know you can at least keep yourself afloat. I didn’t know you’d skipped out on Tuvok’s training, Seven.”

            The Captain is dressed in loose black swim trunks and a gray T-shirt; Seven of Nine is swathed in several layers of robes and cover-ups and, presumably, a swimming costume under it all. They both pause beside a lounge chair. “I asked the Doctor to exempt me from the lessons, citing unfamiliarity with how extended exposure to treated water would affect my implants.”

            Chakotay smirks at her. “You got the Doc to write you a note to get you out of gym class?”

            Seven quirks an eyebrow him. “I beg your pardon?”

            Chakotay turns and shakes his head at the Admiral, who shrugs. He tosses their towels on lounge chair and peels off his shirt. The Admiral returns to her PADD, but I can see her furtive gaze dart up when he pulls the shirt over his head. “Nothing,” he says to Seven. “It’s just…funny, that’s all.”

            Seven gives the water a wary glance. “Perhaps we should simply cancel the kayaking excursion.”

            “I already signed us up.”

            She nails him with a cold glare. “Without consulting me?”

            “But that’s why we’re here, Seven. To try new things.” He strolls over to the deep end of the pool, squats down at the edge and splashes water on his face. “Feels good. Nice and cool.”  In one quick, deft movement, he rises and dives into the pool. When he comes up, he shakes water from his hair and grins at Seven. “Come on in. Let’s see what you can do.”

            She finally pulls off her robe, a knee-length cover up, and a sarong, to reveal a bathing suit that’s modestly cut but nevertheless clings to her like a second skin. Chakotay, treading water in the deep end, grins even wider. Janeway hides behind her PADD.

            Seven struts around to the shallow end of the pool, her bare feet slapping against the pavement, and descends the stairs into the water. Esther and her father move to the side; Chakotay swims over to Seven with efficient and powerful strokes. He stands and holds his arms out to her. Seven places her hands in his at once and he begins to walk backwards into deeper water, bobbing a little as he goes. “I do not wish to go into the deep end,” she says.

            “Come on, Seven. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

            “It’s cold,” Seven says.

            “You’ll get used to it.”

            The similarity of his this exchange to the earlier one gives me pause. I’m not the only one struck by the oddity of the situation, either; across the deck, the Admiral has lowered her PADD, watching them with eyebrows knit together.

            Chakotay continues to bob backwards until he is chest-deep. “Pick your feet up,” he instructs. “Let yourself feel the water under you.”

            Cautiously, Seven does as he says, then stiffens and stands up again. “I do not enjoy this activity.”

            “That’s because you’ve never really done it before, Seven. You have to trust the water.”

            “Placing one’s trust in an inanimate object is irrational.”

            Chakotay purses his lips. “Fair enough. Trust me, then. You do trust _me_ , don’t you?”

            Seven’s hesitation, though infinitesimal, echoes off the deck and the water, and sounds, even in its silence, like a phaser shot at close range. “Of course I do,” she finally says.

            Chakotay has stopped walking backwards. He stares at her, his face unreadable. I look up in time to see the Admiral’s fingers clench on the PADD in her hand until they are white.

            Chakotay rolls his broad shoulders as if to shake off the tense moment. “Let’s try something different,” he says. He places his hands on her slim waist and rotates Seven to the side. “Lie down on your back.” She starts to recline, but her hands flail out to grip his shoulders even as he lowers her into the water. “You have to let go of me, Seven.”

            “But--”

            “Lean your head back, arch up and let go of me.”

            Her left hand slides away from him, leaving behind red welts. “Don’t let me sink,” she warns him.

            “You won’t sink if you arch your back.” He moves his right hand from her waist and slips it under her lower back, pushing her into position and trying to counteract her stiffness in the water. “Just relax.” Her head falls back and her round, firm breasts break the surface.

            I squirm in my lounge chair.

            Chakotay starts to remove his other hand from her waist. “You’re floating, Seven,” he proclaims. “Can you feel it?”

            “I am sinking.”

            “No, you’re not. You’re fine. I’m going to take my hand away now.”

            She clutches at his shoulder with her right hand. “No.”

            “Yes. But you’re going to have to let go. Just trust me and let go.”

            Her hand falls away from his shoulder and he steps back. For a suspended second, she floats while he beams at her. Then, predictably, the arch goes out of her back, her butt descends toward the bottom of the pool and she sinks, arms flailing, before he can stop her. She lets out a little shriek as the water closes over her mouth and nose.

            As he reaches for her, she finally seems to remember that they’re only in about a meter and a half of water and stands up, sputtering. “You let me sink.”

            “No, I was trying to teach you to float.”

            “I trusted you.” She turns away from him, wades over to the staircase and leaves the pool, water falling off her body in waves.

            “Seven,” he calls. “Just wait, Seven.”

            She grabs her towel and her many cover ups and heads toward the resort. “Please cancel the kayaking activity,” she calls over her shoulder, and disappears around the corner while all of us – Chakotay, Admiral Janeway, Daddy and Papi and Esther and Billy, even Toussaint – watch her go.

            When she’s gone, every eye turns back to Chakotay. Esther, now happily dog paddling under her father’s watchful eye, looks up at the Captain. “Why doesn’t she know how to swim?”

            The Captain forces a smile. “There was no one to teach her.”

            The blinks up at him. “She can use my floaties,” she offers.

            He reaches out and strokes his fingertips across her soft, freckled cheek. Under her umbrella, the Admiral presses her fingertips to her lips. “That’s okay, sweetie,” he says. “But thanks for the offer.”

            The girl’s father gives him a sympathetic look. “You just have to be patient with them.” He nods toward the little girl. “Sometimes new experiences have to be their idea. You know?”

            Chakotay rocks back. “Seven’s not… I mean she’s my…” He runs a hand through his hair. “Thanks for the advice,” he says, turns on his heel and dives under the water.

            Daddy and Papi exchange a puzzled glance and shrug. The Admiral shifts in her lounge chair and goes back to her PADD.

            I return to my notebook.

            _I can recall them all, those moments of trust, those memories in the making. I can hold them up and regard them in all their sparkling brilliance and remember what it was like to be held in loving arms. When I realize that I will never feel that from them again, the sadness is almost overwhelming._

            My thoughts are interrupted by a splash at the deep end of the pool.

            Both chairs under the umbrella are empty. The Captain is still swimming laps, carefully avoiding the ongoing lesson in the shallow end, but now the Admiral has joined him. They swim beside each other, length after length, matching each other stroke for stroke. I suspect that he has slowed down to stay even with her until she puts on a burst of speed and powers to the wall. He raises his head in surprise, grins and speeds after her. They reach the far wall together and come up laughing.

            “I could take you in open water, Kathryn,” he says.

            “Maybe. But I’d have you in a sprint.”

            He smirks. “In your dreams, Admiral.”

            In an instant, her smile vanishes. As if realizing what they’ve both just said, Chakotay looks away and leans against the pool wall, his back turned to me. “Where did Marcel go?”

            She pulls herself up to sit on the deck. “Back to the room. There’s something brewing in the negotiations with the Thintath. He wanted to make some calls.”

            He looks up at her, squinting against the bright sunlight. “Does he ever stop working?”

            “Not really. I guess we’re a matched set that way.”

            “I guess so.”

            They are both silent for a long moment, their faces turned away from me. “Dinner later?” she asks.

            He lifts himself up to sit beside her on the deck. “I don’t know. We were supposed to kayak over to the point and have a picnic. But now…” His shoulders slump. “I should probably find something else for us to do.”

            “You just have to be patient with her, Chakotay,” she says.

            “I know. And I’m trying. But she’s so…resistant to everything I suggest.” He leans back on his hands, his face turned to the clear, blue sky. “I’m finding out how different we are.”

            “ _Vive la difference_ ,” she quips.

            “Maybe. But there’s something to be said for common interests, too.” He shakes his head. “We have very few of those.”

            She stares at him, then reaches over and touches his hand. From her angle she probably can’t see the way every muscle in his back tenses at the gesture, but I can. “She’s still trying to find her way.”

            “I suppose.” He climbs to his feet and I quickly lower my gaze to the notebook in my lap. “I should go talk to her.”

            “Are you sure you won’t join us for dinner?”

            He towels himself off and reaches for his T-shirt. “I’ll ask, but I doubt it. She’s angry at me. We wouldn’t be good company anyway.”

            The Admiral rises. “Chakotay…”

            He twists his shirt in his fists. “Don’t, Kathryn,” he says softly. I can see the tension in his neck, as if he wants to turn to her but won’t allow himself. “Just let me work this out.”

            “All right.”

            “Thanks.”

            As he stalks away, I grab my notebook and flip to the page in the back. _Conflicted_ was the wrong word for him. _Agonized_ is probably closer to the mark. I quickly jot it down and glance back at the Admiral.

            She is sitting on the end of the lounge chair he just left, knees drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around them. As she stares off into the middle distance, I can see her lips tremble. _Regretful_ is the word I add to her list, and after it, _tormented_.

**END Part 2**


	3. Chapter 3

**Part 3**

It’s almost twenty-four hours before I see any of them again.

            In a last-ditch effort to make myself concentrate on The Story – and to give the tense foursome a measure of privacy, even though they’ve never seemed to notice my presence – I walk a kilometer away from the resort and eat my dinner that evening at a little open-air bar near the water. It’s a close, humid night, and music drifts up from the beach. I have my notebook with me at the table, but at this point it’s become less of a tool and more of a prop. I only bury myself in it when I want to appear occupied.

            The interest of the pretty Bajoran waitress who delivers my dinner of pork and puha prompts me to set the notebook aside when she responds to my half-hearted flirting. The restaurant is virtually empty and so, once she clears away my dinner dishes, she sits down at my table with a glass of water. “I haven’t seen you in here before,” she says with a smile.

            I shrug. “I’m just a tourist.”

            She sips her water. “Where are you staying?”

            Without thinking, I blurt out the truthful answer. “The Portage.”

            Her eyes widen. “Oh.”

            “But I’m not famous or anything,” I quickly add.

            She gives me a sidelong glance. “No?”

            “Well,” I say with a grin. “Not _very_ famous.”

            “On the verge of famous?”

            I shrug. “Sure. Right on the verge.”

            “So who are you, then?” I start to answer her, but she stops me. “Wait, let me guess.”

            I lean back in my chair and try to project an air of nonchalance, but I’m still inexperienced enough with girls that the game makes my heart thump in my chest. “Fire away.”

            She eyes me up and down. “Athlete? I know one of the other players from the Australian Parrises Squares team is staying over at The Portage. Are you with him?”

            I shake my head. “Nope, not an athlete. Try again.”

            “Hmmmm.” She leans across the table. “Starfleet Cadet here for mountain training.”

            I smile. There was a time when she might not have been far off, but my destiny was never with Starfleet. “No, I’m not really the military type.”

            “I guess not.” She toys with her water glass and looks up at me with a coy smile. “Actor?”

            I laugh out loud. “No, but thank you.”

            She places her elbows on the table and rests her chin in her hands. In the low light I notice that her eyes are deep green, and huge. A wisp of music floats up from the beach and we both pause to listen. “Musician?” she asks.

            I can sing a little, a legacy from my Dad, but… “No. Not a musician.”

            She drains the last of her water. “Do I get a hint?”

            “Sure.” I retrieve the notebook and pen from the chair beside me and lay them on the table between us. She stares at them for a second before looking up. “Writer?”

            I grin. “Writer.”

            “So what do you write? Holonovels?”

            “Not exactly.” I lean across the table. “I’m more of a traditional novelist, although I didn’t start out that way. See, my first book was --”

            Just then a gust of wind blows up off the water and rips through the restaurant, sending empty wine glasses rolling and unattended menus flying. The waitress jumps up, green eyes fixed on the horizon. “Sorry!” she says. “Storm coming. I need to help close everything down.” She darts to the table beside mine, gathering menus and pushing aside fallen palm fronds as she goes.

            I stand up and follow her. “Can I help?”

            Another gust of wind blows through the restaurant. “No, get on back to The Portage before you get drenched!”

            “Okay,” I say, “but will you be here tomorrow night?”

            She turns back to me with a wink. “Drop in and find out.”

            I smile. “I will.” Then I grab my notebook and begin the short trot back to the resort. By the time I get to my room, the wind is howling and the first fat raindrops have begun to fall.

            I’m lying in bed alone when I realize I never got the waitress’s name.

 

=/\=

            It rains all night and well into the next day. I stay in my room drinking raktajino and eating snacks from the room’s small replicator. Late in the morning, a fit of guilt about my conversation with the waitress overcomes me and I try to call my girlfriend back in Wellington. But she’s not home and so I can only leave a message.

            I watch the rain for a while, until sea and sky and mountains all blur into shades of gray. I wonder what the rest of the resort’s patrons are doing, if they’re all trapped in their rooms in an attempt to avoid the storm, too, or if they’ve managed to find something to occupy them in the village.

            Around noon, my girlfriend calls back. “I’ve decided to move home to Perth,” she says. “You need to concentrate on your book. I need to get on with my life.”

            I put up a vague resistance, but to my shame I am neither surprised nor affected by any part of the one-sided conversation. When I say good-bye and sign off, it’s with a curious sense of relief.

            I make a few lackluster scribbles in the notebook, but the words just won’t cooperate. It’s a paradox: I’ve come here to get away from everyone and to write, but I find that I can’t write unless I’m around people.

            The rain finally ends early in the afternoon and the sun breaks through the clouds. I open the French doors and stroll out onto my private balcony, enjoying the fresh, clean smell of the air while the resort comes back to life around me. Daddy and Papi and the children arrive at the pool, and within a minute Esther is once again dog paddling in the shallow end. This time her Papi joins her in the water while the Parrises Squares star sings nonsense songs to his baby son. A pair of Bolians in coordinating striped swimsuits waddle their way down to the beach, a huge stasis unit, presumably full of food and drink, dangling between their chubby blue hands. The French honeymooners who occupy the suite next door wander out onto their own balcony. The woman smiles at me and offers a glass champagne; I reach over the space between the balconies and accept it with a smile.

            We all stand quietly, watching the afternoon sun on the water. “It will be a beautiful evening,” the man says after a time. “But humid.”

            I chuckle. “I assume that’s because it’s been raining all day.”

            He cocks an eyebrow at me. “Has it?” he says, and gives me a sly grin. His new wife whispers a few words to him in French and disappears into the room again. With a wink at me, he moves to follow her.

            “Wait!” I call. “Don’t you want your glass back?”

            “Keep it, _mon ami_ ,” he says, and the doors close behind him.

            I finish off the champagne and am about to return to my own room, when the Admiral and Councilman Toussaint cross the grounds to the empty tennis court, arm-in-arm and laughing. They chat for a minute courtside, until she kisses him on the cheek. They then move to opposite ends of the court, and Janeway serves the ball across the net.

            Unlike Seven, Toussaint is a challenging opponent for the Admiral. He’s every bit as quick as she is, if not quite as skilled. He’s a wiry man, thin and sinewy, but strong, and that strength makes up for his deficit in skill. They’re very evenly matched. The points go back and forth while music drifts up from the beach and many more of the resort’s patrons spill out onto the grounds. I guess we were all tired of being cooped up during the storm.

            The telltale clip-clop of horses’ hooves catches my ear. I’d forgotten the resort has its own stables for boarding patrons’ horses during their stays. The staff also offers riding instruction and excursions into the surrounding mountains most nights. A group of horses and riders, led by a young el-Aurian in a Portage Resort riding jacket, rounds the corner and heads off into the foothills.

            Chakotay and Seven are riding at the back of the group. He looks comfortable enough on his midnight-black mount, but Seven… I’m not sure I’ve ever seen someone quite so stiff in the saddle. Chakotay’s murmuring assurances to her and she keeps shifting her weight according to both his instructions and the encouragement from the second staff rider who joins them a moment later. But she’s uncomfortable, and she just keeps shaking her head at them both.

            As they pass by the tennis court, the Admiral looks up and waves at them. Chakotay calls something to her that makes her laugh and causes Seven to twist slightly around in the saddle to face him. As she does so, she flicks her high-heeled riding boot against the horse’s flank and the animal surges forward, away from the rest of the group. She clutches the reins and clings to the horse until Chakotay and the other staff member urge their own mounts to leap to her side. The staff member takes the spooked horse’s reins and eases her to a halt while Chakotay tries to reassure Seven. For a moment, she looks like she might dismount and go back to the hotel, but Chakotay says a few more quiet words, Seven relaxes slightly in the saddle, and the three of them rejoin the group.

            From the court, Admiral Janeway watches the whole exchange with interest, while Marcel Toussaint clutches his tennis racket. As the riders disappear from view, he calls out to her. “Kathryn?”

            She turns to him with a tight smile. “Sorry.” She steps over the baseline and prepares to serve, then lowers her hands. “I’ve forgotten the score,” she says.

            Toussaint stands very still. “You’re up thirty-love, Kathryn.”

            “Right. Thirty-love.” She raises her hands again. “Are you ready?”

            His racket falls slightly. “I guess I’ll have to be,” he says.

            I dart back into my room, take up my notebook and pen and flip to the page in the back. I scratch the word _oblivious_ from the politician’s short list, and, after a long moment of thought, I substitute a different word:  _resigned._

**END Part 3**


	4. Chapter 4

**Part 4**

 

            The French honeymooner is right; the early evening is as sticky as the previous one, but without the promise of a coming storm to alleviate the damp and sultry heat.

            I take my notebook down to the pool and pretend to write while I watch Daddy and Papi with their children, but after an hour the sun gets to be too intense for me and I wander back into the sunlit but climate-controlled resort lobby. It’s an oddly shaped room with conversation nooks built into every corner, somewhat partitioned off to give at least the impression of privacy. There’s a bustle of activity as the patrons come and go to their afternoon and early evening activities. The happy voices and crisp footsteps on the hardwood floor soon melt into a pleasant hum in the back of my mind, and I find myself opening my notebook, pen in hand.

            _Months pass. A year. My twenty-first birthday comes and goes, unnoted by all but a few friends. My father’s closest confidant sends a bottle of expensive champagne, accompanied by an invitation to join him and his wife for a weekend in Anchorage the next time I can get away from school. But I don’t want to go. Staring at his words on the PADD screen, I remember all the fun I had there with my parents when I was a little boy, and I can’t imagine going back there without them. It’s only then that I realize my withdrawal from my former life is nearly complete._

            “Kathryn?”

            “You go ahead. I’ll be right there.”

            I glance up from my notebook in time to see Janeway and Toussaint hurry into the lobby. Toussaint has a PADD in one hand and a towel in the other; Janeway is carrying both tennis rackets. She has paused, looking at something that I can’t see from where I’m sitting, something around the corner to my left. Toussaint follows her gaze and sighs. “Our dinner reservation is in two hours,” he says.

            She turns to him with a raised eyebrow. “I’ll be ready. Will you?”

            He raises the PADD slightly. “This won’t take more than an hour.”

            She gives him a curt nod and turns back to whatever she was looking at. “That should give you plenty of time.”

            His lips press together in a thin, tight line. “You, too.”

            Her gaze whips back to his and they stare at each other. “I’ll be up in a few minutes, Marcel,” she finally says.

            His face softens and he leans down to place a light kiss on her lips. “I know. I’ll see you soon.” Then he turns and heads for the bank of lifts at the back of the lobby behind and to my right, while the Admiral steps around the corner and out of my sight.

            I start to take up my pen again, but her voice stops me. “How was the horseback riding?”

            There’s the creak of a body shifting in a wooden chair, and then Chakotay’s voice. “It was all right. Seven seemed to enjoy it after a while.”

            “Where is she now?”

            “She wanted to take a shower and regenerate for an hour or so. I thought I’d go down to the beach and meditate, but I stopped in for a cold drink first.”

            “You can’t meditate in your room?”

            “The portable unit gives me a headache. I try to stay far away when she’s using it.”

            There’s a rustle of movement and the slight creak of a second chair. “It shouldn’t make a noise.”

            “It’s not a noise. It’s a…vibration or something. B’Elanna and the Doc have gone over it a dozen times. They can’t figure it out.”

            “Do you want me to look at it?”

            I can hear the smile in his voice. “No, but thanks for the offer.”

            Silence for a moment, and then the Admiral’s voice again. “You look tired.”

            He hesitates, and I wish I could see the expression on his face. “Actually, I am tired. This has not been our best day.”

            “Do want to talk about it?”

            “Yes…but no. I’m sorry.”

            “I understand.”

            “Do you?” He shifts in his chair again. “Where’s Marcel? Busy again?”

             Her voice, when it comes, is light. But there’s a steel in her words that I’ve not heard up to this point. “You know, it occurs to me that you’re only seeing a very small and skewed slice of my relationship with Marcel. You may have gotten the wrong impression about him.”

            I twirl the pen in my fingertips. If Chakotay’s gotten the wrong impression about Marcel Toussaint, then so have I.

            The Captain gives a vague hum and the Admiral continues. “This business with the Thintath came up very suddenly. He didn’t expect to be so busy during this vacation.”

            There is puzzlement in Chakotay’s next statement. “I thought it all started just a couple weeks ago.”

            “It did.”

            “Couldn’t reschedule?”

            “Actually, we hadn’t scheduled this vacation. It was very…spur-of-the-moment.”

            “Then why did you come if you knew you might not be able to spend any significant time together?”

            “Marcel came because I asked him to.”

            “And why did _you_ come, Kathryn? Why here? Why now? Why this week in this place, when you knew he’d be working?”

            I lean forward in my chair, elbows on my knees. There is something significant happening just below the surface of this conversation, and I can’t quite figure out what it is.

            This time, her voice is intense but so low I almost can’t make out the words. “If you have something to ask me, Chakotay, just ask it. I will tell you. But let me caution you: Before you ask the question, you’d better be certain you’re prepared to hear the truthful answer.”

            I hold my breath.

            The silence stretches between them.

            After a full minute, there’s the creak of a chair, a heavy step on the wooden floor, and Chakotay’s voice. “I think I’ll go down to the beach for a while,” he says.

            “All right.”

            “Do you think you could get away for a drink later, Kathryn? We need to talk.”

            “I could probably manage half an hour or so.”

            “Good. I’ll message you with the time and place.”

            Before Janeway can respond, the lift doors at the back of the lobby open and Seven sails out. Looking refreshed and even exhilarated, she heads my way, taking no notice of my presence, and is just about to turn the corner when Janeway replies.

            “I look forward to it.”

            At the sound of the Admiral’s voice, Seven stops in her tracks.

            “I’ll see you then.”

            At the sound of _Chakotay’s_ voice, Seven’s eyes flutter closed. She turns back to the lifts, but before she’s able to take a step Admiral Janeway comes around the corner and pulls up short. “Seven!” I try to sink into my chair.

            Just before she faces Janeway, Seven squares her shoulders. “Admiral.”

            Chakotay darts around the corner, too, eyes wide. “I thought you were regenerating,” he says.

            Seven gives a little shake of her head, eyeing the curious leather-wrapped package in his hands. “I decided it could wait until later.”

            Janeway forces a smile. “Will you and the Captain be joining us for dinner tonight, Seven?”

            “I do not believe so.”

            Janeway’s cheer falters. “I’m sorry to hear it. I was hoping you’d tell me all about your first horseback riding experience.”

            “Perhaps another time, Admiral.”

            “Perhaps.” She looks from Seven to Chakotay and back again. “I’ll leave you to it.” She nods to Chakotay. “Captain.”

            “Admiral.” His eyes are on Seven’s. As soon as Janeway is out of earshot, he relaxes a fraction. “Is everything all right? I thought you’d be at least an hour.”

            “No. I found myself too…energized by the ride to relax. I did not want to lose that feeling.” She steps up to the Captain, pressing her body close to his. “I thought we might want to take advantage of this feeling.”

            Chakotay’s eyes close. “I’m pretty tired, Seven.”  

            She wraps her arms around his neck and brushes her lips across his cheek. Her approach is about as subtle as a silk negligée wrapped around a baseball bat. “Not too tired, I trust.”

            “It's been a long day,” he sighs, clutching the bundle of hide in his left hand.

            “But we spent most of the day in the room.”

            “That's why I'm so tired.”

            Faintly disgusted, I wrinkle my nose at the implication and try to disappear further into my chair, but Seven's response catches me off guard. “Perhaps if you hadn't insisted on arguing with me all morning—”

            “Maybe if you hadn't made so many wild accusations and then refused to listen to my answers, I wouldn't have argued with you.”

            She drops her arms and steps back. They are both silent for a moment, staring at each other. Seven's face shows nothing; in the four days I've been watching them, it’s never really shown much. But now Chakotay has gone expressionless, too. They simply regard each other dispassionately, until Seven takes his free hand in both of hers and tries to draw him toward the lifts. “Come back to the room with me.”

            “No.” He extricates his hand and places it in his pocket. “I need some time to myself.”

            She raises her eyebrow at him. The afternoon sunlight glinting off her implant casts a cold, harsh light over his face, and I shudder. “To...meditate?”

            He squares his shoulders. “Yes. And to commune with my spirit guide.”

            “You would prefer to do this rather than spend the time with me.”

            The muscle at the back of his jaw twitches, but otherwise he doesn't so much as blink in the face of the accusation. “Right now, yes. I would.”

            “Why?”

            “Because it gives me comfort, Seven.” He sighs and looks away, and I get the impression that this is the latest skirmish in a very old conflict. “Don't you have anything that gives you comfort?”

            Her voice is one I have not heard from her before, small and plaintive. “You do,” she says. “You give me comfort.”

            He rubs his forehead with his fingertips. “I know, and I appreciate that,” he says. “I’m honored that you feel that way about me. But Seven, I need to be alone once in a while.” He taps his chest with the hide-wrapped bundle. “I need time to find and keep my balance. I know you don’t understand that, but can you at least try not to be…insulted when I ask for it?”

            She takes another step away from him. “I apologize,” she says softly. “Please take care of your needs. I will wait for you in the room.”

            “Thank you,” he says.

            She turns away from him and heads toward the lifts. He eyes her retreating back, his head cocked to one side. He cannot see her face, but I can, and it shows more emotion than I have seen from her in all the time I’ve been watching them.

            When the lift doors close and Chakotay heads off toward the beach, I flip to the back of my notebook. My heart hurts as I add a word to Seven’s list: _bereft_.

**END Part 4**


	5. Chapter 5

**Part 5**

 

            At dusk a cool breeze blows the heat and humidity away. A few high, thin clouds roll in, and the sunset is beautiful, bright gold and red fading to deep purple over the mountains. I watch from a blanket spread out on the beach. As the first stars come out I lie back, hands under my head, and think about other stars, more familiar to me than these will ever be, but so far away. The Story murmurs to me about groundlessness and loneliness, but I don’t want to give in to it just now. The night is much too fine for melancholia.

            It’s so fine, in fact, that when I see Captain Chakotay hurry into the resort from his meditation spot on the beach, I don’t wait around to see where he goes from there. I’m curious as hell about whatever is going on between him and Admiral Janeway, but there’s such an undercurrent of sadness to the whole situation that I find myself reluctant to expose myself to its resolution.

            So I’m shocked and uncomfortable when, a couple of hours later, I’m sitting in the open air bar waiting for the pretty Bajoran to go off-shift…and Chakotay walks in alone.

            His steady gaze sweeps the place. I assume he’s looking either for the Admiral or for an empty table. His eyes lock on mine for what feels like just a fraction of a second too long, and a wild, primal shiver runs up and down my spine. It occurs to me, days after it should have, that Chakotay is a military man, a tactician, and a former Maquis. I was probably naïve to think he wouldn’t notice me watching them. I freeze under that practiced gaze, but he gives no obvious sign of recognition and continues his survey of the bar.

            I’m relieved…and then disappointed when Chakotay takes a seat in the opposite corner, where there’s no way I’ll be able to hear a word of his conversation with the Admiral.

            Because she’s on her way. I know it. I’ve been watching Chakotay long enough to see the way he toys with his menu and fidgets in his seat as signs of agitation. I wonder what they’re going to talk about. My imagination spins out scenario after scenario. Maybe they’ll argue. Maybe they’ll fall into each other’s arms. Maybe they’ll run away together.

            Maybe I am far too interested in them for my own good.

            Chakotay places an order – not with my pretty waitress, whose name, I have found out, is Sulin, and who is occupied with a party of twelve in a private room just off the main bar – and drums his fingers on the table in front of him.

            Just a few moments later, the waiter returns with a tall glass of beer and a plate of cheese and fruit. Chakotay thanks him and proceeds to down half the beer in one mighty gulp, then sits back in his chair to wait.

            Ten minutes pass. Fifteen. His eyes remain fixed on the door even as he becomes more anxious. He shifts his weight in his chair. He toys with the condensation gathering on his glass. He takes an orange from the plate and shreds the peel in his fingers, but never eats a bite.

            Sulin darts to my table from the side room. “I’m sorry,” she says, “but I’m going to be at least another hour. If you don’t want to wait, I’ll understand.”

            I shrug. “No problem,” I say, and point to my notebook, closed on the table in front of me. “I’ll just get a little work done.”

            She gives me a bright, hopeful look. “If you’re sure…”

            “I’ll be right here,” I say. To my surprise she leans down and gives me a kiss on the cheek before she returns to her work.

            I’m still rubbing my cheek and smiling when I turn back to the door, just in time to see Admiral Janeway hurry in.

            If anything, she looks more agitated than Chakotay, who rises and waves her over to his table. He pulls out her chair for her, sees that she’s settled, and summons the waiter.

            They exchange a few words, pleasantries, I assume from their forced smiles, while they wait for her order to arrive. The waiter returns with a glass of white wine. She takes a slow sip, nods her approval, and the waiter leaves them alone again.

            Reflexively, I grab my pen and open my notebook.

            Chakotay begins the conversation, and as I’d feared, I can’t hear a word he’s saying. She cocks her head to one side before she responds, and I wonder if he’s asked the question she cautioned him about earlier. I wish I knew what the question was. I wish I could hear her answer.

            I wish I were an artist, not a writer.

            I don’t have the words to capture what happens next, to describe the way her response causes him to close his eyes briefly. I can’t describe the way she seems to soften as the conversation progresses, the hard edges of her command presence and public persona slowly sanded smooth by his voice, low and intense. If I were an artist, not a writer, I could depict with a few deft brushstrokes the gradual, almost imperceptible way his whole body begins to loosen and lean toward hers, as if a coil of tension inside him has been undone, finally, by the tenderness in her gaze.

            Nothing I have seen from them, nothing I have observed here in New Zealand or in any of the newsvids that have dogged them for the last year, would have ever led me to believe that their demeanor towards each other has been anything other than completely genuine.

            But they are different now. I can see it.

            In spite of how difficult this conversation must be for them both, they gentle each other. They quiet each other. They expose each other, then soothe each other’s rawness.

            Seeing them together now, I realize I know nothing about them, nothing at all. I’ve watched and made assumptions about what I’ve seen, but whatever is between them is so deep and so complex that I, lonely and lost little boy that I truly am, have no hope of understanding them, or describing them.

            The Admiral glances at the clock on the wall and gives Chakotay an apologetic look. He nods once and stands. He glances around the bar one more time, taking no notice of me, and holds his hand out to her. She gazes up at him for a long moment before placing her hand in his and standing in front of him, toe to toe. When she places her free palm on his chest, right over his heart, he rises to his full height, empowered. They exchange a few more quiet words that I can’t hear, but I almost don’t need to. My eyes are fixed on their hands, clasped so tightly together that her fingers have gone white. They tell me everything I need to know.

            With a final, crooked smile in his direction, she hurries from the bar. He gazes after her with an expression that is more loving than anything I’ve seen him direct at Seven of Nine.

            I stare at the blank pages in front of me, and I have no words.

            I am inadequate to the task of telling this story, The Story, maybe any story.

            I flip through the pages I’ve written while I’ve been on this holiday, and every single word seems self-indulgent and small in the face of what I’ve just witnessed. The word lists at the back are laughably insufficient, too.

            I sigh and rest my head in my hands.

            I don’t know what I’m doing here.

            I don’t know what I’m doing at all.

            I’m so focused on my own failures that I don’t even glance up when a full glass of beer appears on the table in front of me. I just wave the waiter off. “I’m sorry, I didn’t order a refill.”

            “This one’s on me.”

            The now-familiar voice startles me. I gulp and raise my eyes from the page. “Thank you, but—”

            Captain Chakotay ignores my protest. “I’d like a word with you,” he says softly. “I think we need to clear the air, Mister Sisko.”

**END Part 5**


	6. Chapter 6

**Part 6**

            Chakotay  lets my name sink in for a moment, probably making sure I realize he knows exactly who I am. Then he nods to the full glass in front of me and the empty chair opposite me. “May I?”

            It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask if I have a choice. Instead, I set my notebook and pen aside. “It’s Jake,” I respond. “Have a seat, Captain Chakotay.”

            He hesitates for a split second. I may have just confirmed what he has suspected for days: That I know who he is, too, and who the Admiral and Toussaint and Seven of Nine are, and that I’ve been watching them. Then he nods once and slides into the chair, placing his half-empty glass of beer next to my full one. As he does so, I note that while I’m probably a few centimeters taller than he is, and more than twenty years younger, up close he is a broad, powerful man. I don’t think he means to intimidate me, but I can see how the combination of his size and his quiet but forceful voice could be very persuasive, under the right circumstances.

            I allow him to settle into his chair before I speak again. “Can I ask how you know who I am?”

            “I served with your father on the _Merrimac_. You look just like him when he was…” He searches my face. “Twenty-five.”

            I smile. “Twenty-four.”

            The Captain takes a slow sip of his beer. “He was a good man.”

            “Is,” I automatically correct, and the Captain’s eyebrows draw together. Unlike his jet-black hair, they are gray. Up close, I see that this man is older than I thought, possibly even older than Dad. I wonder how long he’s been altering his hair color. I set the thought aside and shrug. “I don’t believe my father is really gone.”

            The Captain stares at me for a long moment. Then he nods once. “Ben Sisko _is_ a good man,” he says. “And your Mother…” His voice trails off.

            “You knew her?”

            “Not well.” He grins suddenly. “In fact, I think the last time I saw her, she was pregnant with you.”

            I chuckle. I’ve seen holos of her from that time. “That was a while ago.”

            “Twenty-four years,” the Captain acknowledges, and raises his glass. “To Jennifer and Ben,” he says.

            “To Mom and Dad,” I say, and we both take a long drink. When he returns his glass to the table, I sit back in my chair. “So what did you want to talk to me about, Captain?”

            The forced smile returns. “It’s just Chakotay,” he says. The couple at the table next to us rise to leave. Chakotay glances at them as they go, then his practiced gaze sweeps the entire bar. “I read your book,” he says without looking at me. “The collection of stories you wrote about the occupation of Deep Space Nine.”

            I let out a slow breath. I’m glad he hasn’t read the second book. I’m not quite ready to talk about it so openly, and certainly not to a stranger. “Oh?”

            He nods, his face still turned slightly away from me. His eyes follow a group of Bajorans as they hurry from the entrance to a booth at the back. “I downloaded it a couple days ago.” He lifts his glass and takes another slow drink. “I needed to know what kind of man you are, Jake,” he continues softly, and finally turns to face me. “Particularly after I caught you watching us.”

            Fighting not to squirm in my chair, I force a smile of my own. “I didn’t think I was that noticeable.”

            “Maybe only to me. It was my job for seven years to assess situations and identify potential threats to Kathryn. It’s a hard habit to break.”

            “Do you think I’m a threat?”

            He chuckles. “No. Not at all.”

            The words offend me, just slightly. “Then why all this posturing?”

            The humor leaves his face, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. “Because you’re an observant man. You’ve been watching us for several days, and you may have seen things that you don’t quite understand. I’d hate for anything that happened here to find its way to the media.”

            Angry at the implied threat, I start to protest, but he stops me with a hand on my shoulder and a slight smile. It’s something my Dad might have done, and it catches me off guard. “But I’ve read your book, and from your words I think you’re a man of integrity. A man of honor.”

            He sounds so much like Worf I almost laugh out loud. “You just wanted to make sure?”

            He drops his hand and nods. “I can’t allow Kathryn’s name to be harmed.”

            “Does she know I’ve been watching?”

            He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Neither does Seven.” He toys with his glass. “And Marcel hasn’t looked up from that PADD of his long enough to notice anything,” he grumbles.

            His tone takes me by surprise. He must be angry at the way the Councilman has virtually ignored the Admiral for the past three days. It appears the Captain hasn’t thought very hard about the way he’s treated Seven during the same span. “He seems very preoccupied,” I say carefully.

            Chakotay nods and leans across the table at me. His voice is low and intense, even more than before. “He doesn’t understand how difficult her position can be.  He doesn’t appreciate the pressure she’s under. He doesn’t know what he’s…” He stops himself, shakes his head and sits back again. “I have to protect her. That’s why I need to make sure none of this gets out. Especially what happened here tonight.”

            My writer’s curiosity gets the better of me. “What _did_ happen here tonight?”

            For just an instant, he beams, but hides the expression away as if afraid I’ve seen it. “I’d rather not say.”

            “Not yet, anyway,” I deduce. “But soon?”

            He narrows his eyes at me. “Are you fishing for an interview?”

            Now I do laugh out loud. “No, Captain, I’m not. Journalism really isn’t my medium anymore.” Just like that The Story begins to whisper to me again. _But here’s an opportunity to learn about character_ , it says. _Don’t squander it._ “But could I ask you something, just to satisfy my curiosity?”

            He eyes my discarded journal and pen. “Off the record?”

            “Completely.”

            He hesitates. “I shouldn’t.”

            I point to his nearly empty glass. “For a refill?” He nods once. I smile and wave to the barman, indicating my order for the Captain.

            “All right,” he agrees, and drains the glass he brought to the table. “But I reserve the right not to answer.”

            “Of course.” The waiter brings his beer and retreats. We both watch him go, then Chakotay turns to me with his eyebrows raised in invitation. I lean across the table. “Did you know the Admiral and the Councilman would be here when you booked this vacation, Captain?”

            With his beer glass halfway to his lips, Chakotay stops short. Of all the questions I might have asked, this isn’t the one he expected, but it’s maybe the one he most feared. He lowers his glass to the table without taking a sip. “You _are_ observant,” he says in a low voice.

            I smile. “And you’re...careful. All of you. It took me most of a day to figure out the four of you hadn’t arrived together. I’m usually better than that.” I take a long pull of my beer while I let that sink in. “Does Seven know this was planned?”

            He turns away quickly, but not before I see the regretful expression he’s trying to hide. “She’s made some accusations that I couldn’t answer.” He shakes his head. “As usual, I’ve underestimated her.”

            “It’s going to hurt her when she finds out.”

            He cringes. “Yes. But maybe not as much as you might expect.”

            “Why do you think that?”

            He turns back to me, and his smile is sad and resigned. “Off the record?” I nod. “Seven wants to call off the wedding. She told me a month ago.” He spreads his hands on the table. “I talked her into this vacation to try to patch things up.”

            My eyebrows rise. “But you had no idea the Admiral and Councilman Toussaint would be here, did you?”

            He shakes his head. “No, they got here the day after we did.”

            I can’t help but stare at him. I review everything I’ve observed about them for the past few days. I replay every conversation in my head. The only conclusion I can draw is that the Admiral knew _he’d_ be here with his fiancée, her former protégée. “Do you think it was just a coincidence?”

            “At first I thought so. But then…” He takes a long drink and then nods at the table he was sharing with the Admiral a few moments ago. “Only a handful of friends knew we’d be here, and why. Kathryn won’t tell me who tipped her off, but I just got her to admit it. She knew _we_ would be here.”

            “But Seven suspects it was you?”

            He nods. “I think so.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “It could just as easily have been me, though. If Marcel and Kathryn had planned their vacation first and someone had told me about it, knowing that Seven was ready to cancel the wedding…I’d have done the same thing.” He taps his fingers on the table. “I’d have come here to see Kathryn. I’m not proud of that, but I would have done it anyway.”

            I think back on all the newsvids and reports I saw on the _Voyager_ crew when they returned to the Alpha Quadrant a year ago. Seven and the Admiral were close. Very close. Now that I have a fuller context for their actions, I suspect that the Admiral’s demeanor toward Seven was as genuine as she could make it, given that her heart was breaking. Now this, which almost can’t be seen as anything other than a betrayal. “What’s Seven going to think when she finds out the truth?”

            “I really don’t know. We’re not sure what to tell her, or how.” He rubs his chin. “We’re not sure how to tell anyone.”

            “Why do you need to tell anyone anything?”

            He blinks at me. “Kathryn has her career to think about. So does Marcel. And I don’t know exactly what’s going to happen next, but whatever it is has the potential to rip Seven’s entire support network out from under her. Neither of us wants that to happen. But we can’t go on like this, either.”

            “Living a lie,” I offer cautiously.

            He looks away. “Not just ‘a lie.’ A year’s worth of lies, half-truths and strategic omissions.” He takes a long drink of his beer. “Sometimes I can’t even look at myself in the mirror,” he mutters. “I never meant to hurt Seven like this.”

            We are both silent for a long moment, nursing our beers. “Can I ask you another question, off the record?”

            He shrugs. “Fire away.”

            “How long have you been in love with Admiral Janeway?”

            His penetrating stare conjures up all the stories I’ve heard about The Maquis Mauler. I force myself to stay still and not flinch. Without looking away, he finishes his beer and sets his glass aside. “I’m not going to answer that,” he says, and something in his voice sends another primal shiver up and down my spine. “But I want to ask _you_ a question, Jake Sisko.”

            “Okay,” I say, and I don’t even recognize my own voice.

            “Do you have someone in your life? Someone who sees exactly who you are and keeps coming back to you anyway? Someone who looks down deep inside you and doesn’t shrink from what’s there? Someone who, with just a touch, can make you feel like a better person than you really are?”

            I think of my now-ex-girlfriend on her way to Perth, Sulin the waitress I barely know, a girl I dated back on the station. “I…no. I guess not.”

            “If you aren’t sure, then you don’t,” he says, and leans across the table at me. “Because if you did, you’d know. When you meet that person, it’ll be a moment you will never forget and never get over, no matter how hard you try.”

            I nod, hoping he’ll continue.

            “And I tried, Jake, I tried. But that moment, and all the ones that followed it, wouldn’t let me go.” He rubs his chin with his fingertips and fixes me with that penetrating stare again. “I’m about to give you some unsolicited advice. I hope you don’t mind.”

            I shake my head. “Not at all.”

            He taps two fingers on the notebook between us. “This,” he says, “this is important work to you. I can see that. It’s admirable that you’ve found your passion at such a young age. But you can’t let it consume you.”

            “What do you mean?”

            He leans back in his chair. “Because life is unfolding around you, Jake. Life in all its strange and messy glory. You need to look up from this once in a while,” he nods toward the notebook, “and realize that every day is filled with moments that have the power to change the course of a life. If you don’t look up once in a while, you might miss yours.”

            I stare at him across the table. “I can’t _not_ write.”

            “And I’m not telling you to.” He smiles. “I’m asking you to not let writing get in the way of your life. I think you can find a way to make it enhance your life. Make it _illuminate_ your life.” He taps the notebook again. “Make it count, Jake. Make it _matter_.”

            “I will.”

            He nods once and rises from the table. “It’s been a pleasure talking to you, Jake,” he says, and offers his hand.

            “You too, Captain,” I reply. We shake hands over the table and with a final nod of satisfaction, he turns and leaves the bar.

            _Every day is filled with moments that have the power to change the course of a life_.

            I stare at the cover of the closed notebook, rolling his words around in my head.

            I’ve just seen one of those moments.

            When I think about it, I know in my gut that I’ve seen something unfold in front of me while I’ve been here, a story made up of moments that I, wrapped up in my own head, almost missed.

            And there are other moments, too. There have to be. I know a lot of the details of _Voyager_ ’s journey – the alliances they made, the battles they fought, the lives they touched along the way. But those seem like superficial details to me now, given what Chakotay’s just told me.

            There was a moment – there _had_ to have been a moment – when he realized that his life would never be the same.

            This is The Story I’ve been trying to tell all along, but I’ve been too close to it to realize where I was going wrong.

            I grab my notebook and flip past all the self-indulgent words I’ve scribbled these last few days. I open to a fresh, clean page, pen in hand, and begin to write.

            _When Anslem met Lydia_ , _she set his soul on fire._

**END Part 6**


	7. Chapter 7

**Epilogue**

            A month or so later, I return to my apartment building after a long day of classes at Pennington. As I pass by the Porter’s lodge, he stops and motions me over. “Package for you, Mister Sisko,” he says, and hands over a large, heavy box.

            “Do you know who it’s from?”

            “No, sir,” the Porter says. “Someone had it beamed in from somewhere in Indiana this afternoon. I didn’t recognize the source code.”

            “That’s funny. I don’t think I know anybody in Indiana.”

            “Nevertheless,” the porter shrugs.

            I hike my bag up on my shoulder and carry the box in both hands. It rattles and clinks as I mount the steps up to my room. I have to balance it against the wall with one hand and my knee in order to press my thumb to the keypad.

            Once inside the apartment, I drop the box on the table beside the door and place my bag on top of it. “Computer,” I call. “Summarize the day’s newsfeeds. Default protocol, headlines only.”

            _“Working.”_ The system pauses, then begins to speak again. _“Inquiry into the Shinzon Affair continues with testimony from Captain Jean-Luc--”_

            “Skip.”

            The system complies and moves on to the next headline. _“Martian Parrises Squares tournament ends in statistical tie; tiebreaker match scheduled for March 23.”_

            I kick off my shoes and head to the kitchen to start dinner, while the computer continues.

            _“Sales of Jake Sisko’s second novel continue to disap--”_

            “Skip!”

            _“The Grand Nagus of Ferenginar attends the opening of the planet’s first women’s clothing store.”_

            I smile. I really need to call Nog.

            As the system moves on through the next few headlines, I begin to slice the Andouille sausages Grandpa sent from New Orleans.

_“Federation President Min Zife will not seek nomination for a second term, citing age and illness; Councilman Marcel Toussaint announces the formation of an exploratory committee.”_

            I toss the sausages in a hot pan with a little olive oil and begin chopping peppers, onions, celery and garlic. “Extend thread.”

            _“Working… Dateline: Paris, France, Earth. Federation President Min Zife has announced that he will neither seek nor accept nomination for a second term in office, citing age and illness. The elderly Bolian and decorated military hero will step down upon completion of his term in January of 2380, opening the nomination process for the office. Four hours after Zife’s announcement, Councilman Marcel Toussaint issued a statement declaring his intention to seek the nomination. He has formed an exploratory committee headed by longtime assistant Chantal Conmercy. Councillor Toussaint’s companion Admiral Kathryn Janeway, on indefinite leave from Starfleet, could not be reached for comment. Political watchers presume she has retreated to her family home in southern Indiana, and--”_

“Suspend thread. Resume headline playback.”

            _“Former Borg drone Seven of Nine announces that her liaison with fellow_ Voyager _returnee Captain Chakotay has ended; wedding plans are cancelled.”_

            “Extend thread.” I add the vegetables to the pan with a little white wine to deglaze it.

            _“Working… Dateline: San Francisco, California, Earth. Former Borg drone and_ Voyager _returnee Seven of Nine announced today that her engagement to fellow_ Voyager _returnee_ _Captain Chakotay has ended. The couple, engaged since late September of 2378, offered joint statements. ‘Captain Chakotay is a kind, generous and gentle man,’ Seven said. ‘He has a lifetime of love to give. I am certain that he will soon find a more compatible mate with whom to share his life and his love. I wish for him the peace and happiness that he deserves.’ She has returned to her ancestral home in Sweden for an indefinite period, accompanied by_ Voyager _’s holographic Emergency Medical Hologram. Captain Chakotay issued his own statement from Bloomington, Indiana. ‘Seven is a wonderful young woman,’ the Captain said. ‘She has her whole life ahead of her. She’s going to make someone very happy someday, and I wish her all the joy that life can bring her.’ Captain Chakotay has been granted an indefinite leave of absence from Starfleet Academy.”_

            “Stop playback.” I stand and watch the sausages and vegetables sizzle and pop in the pan. “Computer, resume playback of the previous thread.”

            _“Working… Political watchers presume that Admiral Janeway’s absence from Councillor Toussaint’s press conference indicates the end of their relationship. The Admiral had stated on numerous occasions since she began dating Toussaint that she would be, quote, ‘a lousy First Lady.’ Conventional wisdom held that the well-known and outspoken Admiral, famous for_ Voyager’s _return and infamous for the Shinzon Affair, would be an obstacle to Toussaint’s potential election to office, should Zife resign or decline to seek reelection. Admiral Janeway requested leave shortly after the Shinzon Affair and has not yet returned to Starfleet Headquarters. Councillor Toussaint will now be required to petition---”_

            “End thread, end playback.” The comm shuts itself off. I add a few spices to the pan and several cups of water. When it comes to a boil I add rice and tomatoes, cover the pot and reduce the heat.

            On a hunch, I return to the table beside the door where I left the box. I pull it open to reveal half a dozen leatherbound notebooks, and underneath them, twelve bottles of the same beer Chakotay and I shared in the bar. When I pick up the notebooks, a note written in an elegant, flowing hand falls out of the one on top: _“Thank you for your silence, Jake. Wherever he is, your father is proud. We look forward to reading your next book.”_ The note is signed _“Love, Kathryn,”_ in the same flowing hand, and below it, in neat, precise letters, _“Make it matter. Peace, Chakotay.”_

            I laugh and open the first bottle.

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I worry about Jake Sisko. If his Dad is not around to tell him to look up from that notebook once in a while, as he did in "The Visitor," who will? I took a bit of creative license and put those words in Chakotay's voice instead. The first question in my head, though, is whether or not Chakotay, who we've established as a very private man, would open up to Jake and speak so candidly. I think he would. Why? Because he's a tactician. Chakotay uses his story to buy Jake's silence. Presumably somewhere down the road, Chakotay and Janeway's story will find its way into one of Jake's novels. That would seem to me to be a fitting price for Jake's silence.
> 
> The second question is: Why did Janeway go to New Zealand in the first place, if she knew Chakotay and Seven's relationship had become rocky? It could be because she wanted to make one last effort to remind Chakotay of what they once meant to each other. But would she have taken Marcel with her in that case? I don't think so. No, I think the more likely reason she went to New Zealand is that she honestly thought she could help these two people who were once so close to her mend their relationship. But she got there and realized she still had feelings for him and was in way over her head. But that's the part of the conversation Jake can't hear and Chakotay didn't quite relate, and that we can therefore never know. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this one. If you did, please drop me a line.  
> Laura


End file.
